The Pochamacha Noir - Busan Redemption
Copyright© 2025 by Noctavya
Chapter 29: I’m Cum ... I Mean, Coming
Drama Sex Story: Chapter 29: I’m Cum ... I Mean, Coming - A retired Korean Black Ops made a heartwarming friendship with a prostitute
Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Coercion Consensual Drunk/Drugged NonConsensual Rape Fiction Military Tear Jerker BDSM Rough Safe Sex Revenge Violence AI Generated
The burner phone rang. Just once. Then again.
Hana picked it up, leaned back on the grimy couch, still in her fishnet stockings and a tank top. Her bunny ears were now resting on a coat rack like a war trophy.
She smirked.
Dialed.
It rang.
Then picked up.
“Who the fuck is this?”
She cleared her throat dramatically and said with her best “Taken” voice:
“I don’t know who you are ... I don’t know what you want ... but if you’re looking for ransom—wait. No. That’s not it.”
She squinted at the wall like the line was floating there.
“Fuck it. I’m cum.”
Beat.
“ ... I mean, I’m coming.”
There was a long silence.
Then Pil-doo exploded from the other side of the line.
“YOU BITCH! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?! I’LL RIP YOUR TITS OFF AND STAPLE THEM TO YOUR—”
Click.
Call ended.
Across town, in a luxurious high-rise that looked out over the city’s dirty bones, Pil-doo’s father stood silently in the back of the room.
He had the look of old power. Graying temples. Immaculate black suit. Rings on his fingers not for fashion, but as blood-soaked badges of history.
He sipped his tea as his idiot son threw his phone at the wall.
“She’s crazy, Dad! She thinks she can mess with me! I’ll make her—”
The old man raised a hand.
Pil-doo shut up.
The father slowly walked toward the smashed phone. He didn’t even bend—someone else picked it up for him.
“You messed with the wrong girl, son.”
He tossed a manila folder onto the table. Inside: nothing. No photo. No ID. Not even metadata. A blank slate.
“When even my highest-level contacts can’t open her file, you know what that means?”
He turned and looked his son dead in the eye.
“She’s not your problem. She’s everyone’s nightmare.”
He adjusted his tie.
“Did I not teach you anything? You don’t fuck with street girls. You pay them, you feed them, you respect them. In these streets, they could be your shield. Your informants. Your allies.”
He sighed.
“But nooo. You and your TikTok-brain thugs needed to get your rocks off playing serial killer cosplay with drug money and mommy issues.”
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